"I don't know very much about him. I know he was a supply priest in Paris, then confessor of a queen in exile. There were terrible stories about him, which, thanks to his influential patronage, were hushed up under the Empire. He was interned at La Trappe, then driven out of the priesthood, excommunicated by Rome. I learned in addition that he had several times been accused of poisoning, but had always been acquitted because the tribunals had never been able to get any evidence. Today he lives I don't know how, but at ease, and he travels a good deal with a woman who serves as voyant. To all the world he is a scoundrel, but he is learned and perverse, and then he is so charming."
"Oh," he said, "how changed your eyes and voice are! Admit that you are in love with him."
"No, not now. But why should I not tell you that we were mad about each other at one time?"
"And now?"
"It is over. I swear it is. We have remained friends and nothing more."
"But then you often went to see him. What kind of a place did he have? At least it was curious and heterodoxically arranged?"
"No, it was quite ordinary, but very comfortable and clean. He had a chemical laboratory and an immense library. The only curious book he showed me was an office of the Black Mass on parchment. There were admirable illuminations, and the binding was made of the tanned skin of a child who had died unbaptized. Stamped into the cover, in the shape of a fleuron, was a great host consecrated in a Black Mass."
"What did the manuscript say?"
"I did not read it."
They were silent. Then she took his hands.